The bells rung out in the
night,
A mist hung over the
ghastly sight,
In the twilight of
Tallaght blight.
A man limped in the alley
light,
Coughing as he fell to his
right.
O'Rourke and the lads
stood grimaced,
Overcoats coated the
hearts on their sleeves.
The pressing answers he
hadn't the slimmest,
For the pack of common
thieves.
They pulled him up and
punched him loose,
Those memories and years
of useless abuse,
He wished he could take
back.
He gulped but wouldn't
crack,
Hoped he could see them
again.
Then told himself it
wasn't in vain.
There was his wife -
Sinead McCann,
The lovely lass he met in
the rain,
Under the door of The Lucky's.
Brushed her hair and
kissed in the breeze,
Too many more frightful
moons ago,
A love so foolish to hold
loose and let go.
His son Liam was ten years
old,
Made from the same mould.
Took the brunt and left in
the cold,
After nights of drinks and
fury.
His daughter Aisling
rolled her eyes,
Thought her dad didn't
know a thing.
Fifteen years old – felt
chastised.
How Monty wronged them so,
He realised after another
blow.
He fell to his knees and
spat out a tooth,
Blood ran down his chin
and onto his shirt.
He looked up at his old
mate Mickey,
Recalling the fun bloom of
youth.
He could tell on his face
it hurt,
Mickey fought to keep dry
eyes.
O'Rourke aggressively
lifted him,
“No more of these lies,
Monty.”
I won't give up 'til I
have the truth.”
“I don't know what you
mean,
I don't know a fucking
thing.”
Monty was honest but knew,
The fate O'Rourke's eyes
drew.
Green and weathered all
through,
Left Monty feeling awfully
blue.
In the back of the van
with blinds over his eyes,
His mouth tied shut to
ruffle his sullied cries,
Prayers he said for his
family had said a lot.
He never turned to the
skies for his problems,
But thrifty Monty dearly
lost the plot.
These were the most
desperate of times.
They took him out into the
crisp woods,
Threw him down into the
slippery dirt.
Small wind let trees sit
still and lifeless,
Timeless eyes idle and
baring witness.
Monty looked up at
O'Rourke's haunting figure,
A stoic silhouette formed
out of headlights.
The lads stood behind him
in the shadows.
“This is your last
chance,”
O'Rourke reached into his
trench-coat,
The silver caught Monty's
bloodshot glance.
“Are you going to sadly
sink or hopefully float?
You stole from the
unfortunate of little wealth,
What do you have to say of
yourself?”
“I did nothing at all,”
Monty begged but didn't
ball.
He didn't have the
strength to stand,
But refused to die a
cowardly man.
“Just tell my family I
love them.”
O'Rourke lifted the gun
and stepped forward,
A solemn scene of tragedy
he'd seen before.
He was battered, bloodied,
left in ruins,
Kicked in the ribs and
shot in the head.
Dropping to his knees was
big Mickey Finn,
A man should never see a
friend shot dead.
O'Rourke struggled with a
single tear,
Wiped it off and turned
around aware,
Men had shovels and
flashlights in hand.
They held their head up
and kept quiet,
Stepped silently and to
dig they began.
They left dear old Monty
in that dirt pit,
Then carried on to their
heart's permit.
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